


(do what i) please

by Hinterlands



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (sort of), Clothed Sex, F/F, Light Dom/sub, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: “Fareeha,” she begins, and is silenced by the pad of a calloused thumb, pressed just against her lips; Fareeha’s voice is soft but resonant, gentle censure. “Quiet, now, until you’re asked to speak.” Then, softer, her eyes fixed on Angela’s, warmth welling within them; “You remember how to stop this if you wish.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agenthill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Words (Ain't Good Enough)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771674) by [agenthill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill). 



> Be sure to read the tie-in predecessor to this fic, Words (Ain't Good Enough), linked just above!

In the end, all things seem to winnow down to _touch_ , and the void left by the lack of it, the lingering sensation of calloused fingertips just brushing the hinge of Angela's jaw, the persistent pressure of Fareeha's hand curled just so around her wrists, her grip firm but loose enough to be broken by even an unpersistent effort, holding her there, a hair's breadth from temptation. _Touch in kind, and you receive nothing,_ and this much she knows, a rule as old and rote as any, and it is the threat of this--of losing what little contact Fareeha has chosen to afford her, interrupting the slow, meandering path Fareeha's fingers have taken from the hollow of her throat to the sliver of clavicle exposed by the collar of her shirt, meant as a test, meant to entice, the faintest application of Fareeha's nails promising _more, in time_ \--that stays her, breaths progressively coming more quickly, more raggedly, her fingers interlaced, spots of color blooming high in her cheeks.

(Angela knows this as well as anything; that she will remain here, knelt and trembling, so long as Fareeha wills it--that Fareeha is accustomed to embracing roles, has embraced a succession of them throughout her life, made them distant from her, made them other and yet intrinsic--and that Fareeha's firmness is not feigned, the air of command she exudes not-- _ill-fitting,_ precisely, not something loose and ragged that hangs from her shoulders, but something that introduces a kind of friction, all the same. Fareeha will keep her here until those clever hands have canvassed every conceivable _inch_ of her body, trailed her nails along the curve of her ribcage and the cords of sinew in her ankles alike, and then--only then--will she be afforded a chance at clemency.

A moment of stillness, Fareeha's face pensive, and even the faint pressure of her fingers resting inert against what little of Angela's skin is exposed is inciting the faintest of tremors through her; cautiously, she shifts on her knees, and the edges of Fareeha's mouth quirk, just briefly, as though she knows now what will follow, that Angela's lips will part, slightly, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet them, as if attempting to break that stalwart resolve. It is not a serious attempt at motion, nor is it a protest, so it is forgiven, and ignored.

“Fareeha,” she begins, and is silenced by the pad of a calloused thumb, pressed just against her lips; Fareeha’s voice is soft but resonant, gentle censure. “Quiet, now, until you’re asked to speak.” Then, softer, her eyes fixed on Angela’s, warmth welling within them; “You remember how to stop this if you wish.”

“Yes,” Angela replies, little more than a hoarse whisper, and Fareeha affords her a single, chaste kiss, all too fleeting, before sitting back, and setting to work once more. Tonight is different, somehow—Fareeha’s hands dart beneath the hem of her shirt, but only to trace upwards from the curve of her waist, not to remove it; Fareeha releases her wrists, slides her new-freed hand upwards to join its twin, and that Angela cannot _see_ the movements as Fareeha makes them but for the slight, precise motions of her shoulders, that they are not telegraphed, that they can only be _felt_ as those clever fingertips spiral upwards from the indent of her navel to her chest, capricious, affording her only the slightest sensation is—not unpleasant. Quite the contrary; a quiet shiver runs the length of her spine, her clasped hands trembling almost imperceptibly.

 _Beat_ , and breath, and still Fareeha makes no indication that she intends to undress Angela, that she is so inclined to do anything more than smooth those capricious, calloused hands over hips and belly and chest and shoulders, at times grazing beneath the cloth (a hot flush rises to the surface of her skin wherever Fareeha’s fingertips fall, the length of her abdomen swirled red), at times merely leaving Angela to strain for the imagined ghost of a touch as they smooth over fabric; a flutter of impatience, somewhere down deep, but the cost of motion is high, and growing ever-dearer, as Fareeha bends her neck to let her lips rest, inert, against the hollow of Angela’s throat, breath just misting over her skin, in slow, steady, even exhalations, feeling Angela’s own breaths stutter free, ragged and gasping.

(At last, a flickerfast fluttering of hope; Fareeha’s left hand slides downward, blunt nails dragging, faint ridges of red rising in their wake, comes to rest just above the junction of her thighs; Angela can’t quite swallow the _sound_ that escapes her, then, low and wanton, and the glance Fareeha affords her is warning, one brow arched, the heel of her palm lifting away, just slightly.)

A heartbeat’s pause; Angela is motionless, eyes forward, scarcely breathing, and finally, _finally_ , Fareeha shifts her hand again, continues its meandering descent, cupping her through the fabric of her pants, and the disbelief that tightens Angela’s lips elicits the faintest of chuckles. “Move,” Fareeha tells her, curtly, and Angela rocks forward, giving vent to a sobbing breath; that pressure is not nearly _enough_ , and Fareeha remains motionless and outwardly impassive through it all, neither squeezing nor rocking in kind, leaving Angela to grind down through layers of cloth, silently pleading for some sensation, some _friction_ , one hand curved over the ridge of Fareeha’s shoulder.

(All things winnow down to _touch_ , and the dull, hollow ache building in the core of her is a testament to that, as she presses a hand over Fareeha’s in a vain attempt to find some purchase, as a particularly throaty sound at last inspires Fareeha to _move_ , to tighten her fingers, to curve them ever-so-slightly upward in encouragement as the heel of her palm presses forward, a touch more firmly; that, at least, is something more solid to move against, and Angela is _fervently_ grateful, working up a frantic rhythm, head lolling forward, color rising high in her cheeks; the corner of Fareeha’s mouth twitches upward, after a heartbeat longer, and that, in retrospect, should have been a warning of what was yet to come.)

Fareeha feels that subtle _shift_ , the stutter in her rhythm, the imperceptible tightening of Angela’s thighs as she clutches at that pressing, arched hand, the high, sobbing note in her breathing—and Fareeha, by measures, pulls away, retracts those blessed fingers, and Angela cannot quite bite back the quiet keen that fills her throat, confusion and desperation intermingled, flushed crimson to the base of her neck, peering up at Fareeha dumbfoundedly.

“I believe,” Fareeha says, with great gravity, the corner of her mouth quirking further, “that there are a few things I forgot to attend to. I’m sure you don’t mind _waiting_ while I do?”

Barely half a step from the precipice, Angela’s eyes widen slightly, a faint incredulity seeping into her expression, mouth open, agape. “I—”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” Barely a heartbeat before Fareeha is clambering down from the mattress, smiling serenely, leaving Angela, fully-clothed, one hand braced against the bedspread, to peer after her as she turns on heel and sweeps from the bedroom, that unbearable, aching, unrealized _fullness_ still pulsing irregularly in the core of her—and Angela clenches her teeth, and falls onto her back, and tries to stay her errant hand from wandering downwards, because she has come this far—and the rule still exists. She has come too far for no _result._

(Fareeha is gone from even the periphery of her vision for what feels like eons, and there is the faint impression of sound beyond the bedroom in a litany of spaces that have, functionally, in this moment, ceased to exist; the world has narrowed down to this room, this bed, the arousal still simmering low within her, only slightly cooled by the passing of moments. One hand arched against her stomach, trembling with indecision. If Fareeha does not return within another minute, she will move, and take her _own_ pleasure, and Fareeha will forfeit the opportunity to bear witness to it, and that is right, and set.)

Her fingers have only just begun trending downward, her head lolling back, eyes lidded, fixed on the ceiling, when there comes a soft ragged inhalation from the doorway, a faux-scandalized _“Well.”_

Immediately, she retracts her hand, cheeks afire, and catches just a sliver of a smile as she glances in Fareeha’s direction, sitting up slightly; Fareeha shakes her head as she approaches, hands folded at the small of her back, and her voice _drips_ some caricature of disappointment when next she speaks. “I’d assumed you weren’t the type to be so impatient.”

“That was before you left me like _this_ ,” Angela retorts, the faintest of tremors wracking her, and Fareeha’s teeth wink in the briefest of grins as she rolls her shoulders in a slow, exaggerated shrug. “It’s your forfeit,” she says with a great, heaving sigh, feigning some semblance of regret, and Angela’s pulse—if it could be observed—stutters on the brink of simply stopping.

“I did nothing I wasn’t meant to,” she says, as evenly as she can manage, and Fareeha touches a finger to her lips, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling pensively, and _still_ , that lingering shadow of a smirk. “I suppose,” she says at last, at length, “that you haven’t.” She edges forwards again, digs one knee into the bedspread, shifts forward to straddle Angela, one hand against her shoulder, pushing her gently—but insistently—onto her back. “And I suppose _that_ means we get to start over again.”

Frustration warring with impulsive, insistent eagerness, with exasperation, with love. “That,” Angela says, primly, “would be perfectly acceptable.”

(The laugh Fareeha looses then is more than worth the effort--some crack in the facade before they return to this established equilibrium, a sound that is purely, utterly Fareeha--welling from the core of her warm and stuttery and golden, and the kiss that Fareeha leans down to afford her, even more so.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (very) belated birthday present for my best friend and partner in crime, rory agenthill. Thank you for countless bad nights made better, bro, and thank you for being the sweet, talented, wonderful fucker you are. <3
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed!
> 
> (Title is from One Direction's "Midnight Memories.")


End file.
